


In My Life  -  McLennon

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cutesy, Fluff, Happy Ending, Internal Monologue, Kissing, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Requited Love, Song: In My Life (The Beatles), Songfic, Songwriting, gratuitous kissing, pining dumbasses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21992077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: John's in love. Really in love. That's not new, is it? It's eight whole years "not-new," the raging queer crush he has on Paul. It's getting even harder to ignore. He's just so full of love for people and for Paul all the time, and so he decides to write a new song. It quickly becomes less about all he's loved before, and more about the man he's in love with now. And that's fine, you know, everyone likes a good love song.It's only gonna be a slight issue if Paul walks in on him pouring out his emotions, but you know what? Screw it. They'll work it out, -- they always do. Plus, as John has always said, you can't control what the world throws at you, but it'll just have to do.Sometimes he just gets more than he bargained for.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 47
Kudos: 140





	In My Life  -  McLennon

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome, to an un-beta-ed McLennon fic, because I had this idea and just couldn't get it out of my head, and John is my spirit animal, so I love writing from in his head. Hope it's not too awful. :) Enjoy!

John sighed, leaning his guitar case against the wall by his bedroom door, and flopping onto his bed. God, he wanted to die. If he had to look at Paul, Paul and his pretty eyes and big lips, one more time and not be allowed to slam him against the nearest wall, or push him onto the recording console, or maybe sit him on Ringo's drums so he could stand between his legs, and just fucking KISS HIM, he was going to lose it. In fact, I think it's safe to say he was losing it. Actively. Definitely losing it. _Let's see,_ John thought, groaning into his bedsheets, _I've got a raging queer crush on my probably straight best friend. And I see him every day. And I share a mic with him in session, so I have to be so tantalizingly close to his lips that I can fucking feel his warm and flowery breath on my face. And I'm gonna go insane if I can't kiss him. And I can't kiss him. Aw, fuck, why is all the good stuff illegal?_ He wondered, rolling over onto his back. 

He reached over to his nightstand pulling out his notebook and a pen. George had made him switch to pens some time ago, insisting that _you can always edit later, but that you should always have the exact original idea to draw back to, now **get the fuck away from my waffles, you wanker.**_ He clicked open the pen and spun it around his fingers, thinking. He needed some fresh air for that. He opened the door to the veranda, and pulled out his notebook. He loved this balcony. So many nights smoking, getting drunk, getting high, just existing happily with Paul in these very chairs. A nice place. He got so wrapped up in his thoughts that the song was basically writing itself here.

> _There are places I remember._

He loved when places were tied to Paul memories. Of course, a lot of them weren't really the same as when they'd been him-and-Paul places. They _changed_. Paint jobs, renovation. He remembered going back to the club they first played together. Back when they were the Quarrymen or... whatever it had been. He could just remember how big and shiny and _excited_ Macca's eyes had been, his fingers gliding effortlessly over the long strings with his pale and pretty fingers. The club didn't look as dark and stuffy as it once did. It shut down just after they stopped doing gigs there, had been sold to someone else and renovated. It had been painted over and there was a real, marble countertop now. _Real marble_. What the hell was that about? **Real marble??** What absolute _wanker_ needs _anything_ more than plastic slabs with the linoleum stickers on them?? 

> _All my life, though some have changed._

They may think they're the shit with their _real countertops_ , but it would never be as perfect, cozy, and perfectly _shitty_ as it was that day. It would never make the light perfectly cascade off the soft and subtle curves of Paul's face, just a bit blurry as John continued to neglect that he needed his glasses. All freckles and big eyes, high eyebrows and soft breath, beautiful voice and talented fingers. He'd been so _perfect_ there. It had been so pretty and wonderful, why did they _ever_ change it? It'd never go back to the perfect way it was. Damn that. _Goddamn_ _that_.

> _Some forever, not for better._

That wasn't quite as bad as walking past the forgotten park where he'd spent afternoons writing songs with Paul in the early days, summers spent lounging in the sun in too-hot sport coats and button ups, ending up ditching their blazers over a picnic table and unbuttoning the front of their white shirts, laughing as their hair got sweaty and stuck to their foreheads in the afternoon heat. That park wasn't even fucking **there** anymore. A big movie theater had been set up there. Fuck _that_. Nothing there could really be any better than the time that the two of them got stuck at the park in the hail in winter, and were huddled together under the picnic table, both of them trying to encase themselves in John's parka. Paul had ended up straddling John's lap, the two of them shivering and holding each other so _close_ , the coat pulled around John's back and halfway zipped over Paul's. Their hot breath mingling in the night air, laughing breathlessly as they waited for it to _stop_ , so they could walk home _together_. Even after the sky had stopped pelting them with five inch balls of ice, they just stayed wrapped in each other for a few more moments more, red cheeks and noses pressed against the other's to keep them from getting frostbite, hands covering any bit of exposed skin the chill could nip at. Better than the theater, a thousand times, because there were a thousand memories like that, some even better.

> _Some have gone, and some remain._

At least the movie theater had some good memories, though he'd trade it for the park in a heartbeat. They'd actually gone and seen a horror film there once, and Paul practically _leaped_ into John's lap and held onto him the rest of the movie. Best 45 minutes of John's life, but he had to see the movie a second time cuz he'd been completely unable to pay a lick of attention because, _holy shit, James fucking Paul fucking McCartney is in my lap and is holding my hand._ Like, come on. That's pretty fuckin' great. His legs totally fell asleep about thirty minutes in because he was too afraid to move them, but it didn't matter, because Macca had one hand tightly holding his, and the other tangled in John's curly, teddy hair, their chests pressed together as Paul went between keeping his chin on John's shoulder and looking away from the screen, or turning his neck around to watch over his own shoulder, brushing John's cheek with his nose each way. Beautiful torture, he loved that.

> _All these places had their moments._

John sighed, lighting a cigarette with his ink stained fingers. Damn _George_ and his _pens_ , but worse things had happened. He remembered climbing into Paul's bedroom window some days, laughing and laughing and John hiding under the bed whenever Jim came up, and Paul would just say he'd been playing records and that Jim should get his hearing checked, and then John'd come out and laugh and play for hours more before John snuck back out and left. Of course, most of the time, he'd grab Paul with one hand and Paul's bass with the other and drag them out the window with him to band practice with what had been the initial Beatles-troupe. Every single time, he'd go out of his way to steal little, -- let's be honest, long and wistful, -- glances at the bassist's bright grin and closed eyes as he rocked himself back and forth wildly, not even on the beat, but it didn't matter because he was fucking **adorable** and was perfectly good at nailing his chords and keeping pitch.

> _With lovers and friends, I still can recall._

Yeah, those had been nice days, though he loved George and Ritchie far more, he and Pete and Stu and Paul _had_ made a very good team, and those days were some fun. Although, he'd admit, he was incredibly frustrated the whole damn time. That whole, _wait, boys are so pretty too,_ epiphany really kinda threw John off his rhythm, and then he just wanted to make sure he wasn't going crazy. He probably should've handled that Not The Way He Did, but it wasn't all that bad. Stu was plenty pretty and plenty kind. Rubbish at that whole boyfriend thing, but that wasn't really the point, they were new to the game, and both sorta sucked at it. ~~In several ways, though John was probably better at the double-meaning way.~~ 'Course, Stu was gone now. He still felt bad about how he left things with Stu, and he was very sad to lose someone like that. That bastard had to go off and _die_ , apparently. John didn't really like to talk, -- or _think_ , for that matter, -- about his relationship with Stu. Actually, Stu in general was a blacklisted topic.

> _Some are dead, and some are living._

You know, for a guy who put up a front of nonchalance and -- forgive me, -- downright _bitchiness_ like John, it was really easy for him to love people. Like, _really_ easy. He loved Stu. He loved Pete. He loves George. He loves Ringo. He loves Paul, albeit not in the same way he loves the rest of them, save Stu, but that flame is burnt out, has been a while, and was never anything ever remotely comparable to what he felt and does still feel for sweet, perfect, _unattainable_ Paul. He had loved all of the people he doesn't see anymore, and finds it hard not to love the people he's surrounded by nowadays, his favorite people, his band, his friends and his Paul. God, he loved them all so badly, so much, so much, _so much_ he loved them, sometimes he nearly broke down sobbing in the studio after bad days, but Ritchie, Geo, and Paulie would always tell him it was fine. Fine, fine, he was going to be _fine_. Sometimes he nearly cried just because of how much he _fucking needed them_ , loved them, and how _wonderful_ they all were. 

> _In my life, I've loved them all._

Of course, he _did_ love Paul most. Always had. God, perfect little Paulie with his arched brows and shiny eyes and big lips and soft shape and frankly _sinful_ thighs and pretty face. He loved him the most, so much more than the others, though differently. Loved him more than Stu, even when he'd been going out with Stu he loved Paul more, something that made him feel really shitty, but he couldn't do much about it. He couldn't fall out of love, and Paul was immovably heterosexual and no fun, so Stu would have to do and he wasn't bad at all. He just wasn't _Paul_. No one could ever be. Paul was just damn perfect, in literally every way. It took **so much fucking self-control** not to sidle up by him and... at this point, John wasn't sure if he was more into the idea of wrapping him in spontaneous hugs and giving him flowers, taking care of him and being a good lover, or the idea of holding his hands and kissing him when he put on that adorable pout. He was just **so much better** in **every single way** , and it drove him crazy. No one could ever measure up to how fucking angelic Paul was, that was simple fact to John. No one was even remotely comparable to Paul, the most beautiful man, human, creature, thing he'd ever see. 

> _But of all these friends and lovers, there is no one compares with you._

John wouldn't say he was **good** at loving, not at all. He just ended up doing it, a lot. Weak heart. But god, if he redefined what he thought of as love just with his boys, his band, his Beatles? All that other love he felt would just... be so far inferior, so meaningless. He'd never felt so loved before, and never given so much love before in return. He found himself lavishing George and Ritchie and Paul with all the little things he could, -- grand gestures too. On some Christmas a while back, he'd once blown his pockets on their gifts **and** written each of them a song. George had nearly cried, Ritchie had hugged him so damn tight they nearly suffocated, and Paul actually did cry. Not in front of John, no, in front of John he'd blushed, smiled so brightly, and kissed his cheek in a hug, -- which would've been a good enough reaction anyhow, -- but then not five minutes later, he totally saw Macca sobbing to George and pointing at the song John'd written, but the good kinda tears. Everything he'd ever seen as love before that? Before the boys? Fuck, it didn't measure up. If he changed the way he thought of love to suit the four humans he loved most, -- or even especially just Paul, -- then God. Any previous love was childish, totally nothing like this. He liked this so much, dammit, he loved it and he loved them and he loved Paul.

> _And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new._

Now, granted, he knew he couldn't do that. Especially if he changed it to suit Paul. His little Paulie. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, **fuck** he loved Paul so **fucking** much that it **fucking** hurt. If he said that love was only what he felt for Paul, he'd have never loved anyone, never would love anyone, never feel anything at all resembling love for anything ever then, ever again. That just wouldn't be fair. Because he was sure he'd felt love, Paul was just...

> _Though I know I'll never lose affection._

Paul. I mean, it was that simple, wasn't it? No one could ever be Paul. He didn't believe in soulmates or star-crossed lovers or fate or whatever the hell, but Paul was as close as it got. He was everything John wanted, it was just that simple. Lennon couldn't ever fantasize a person any better than McCartney. No one could ever even hope to compare to that boy, and John knew he was just way too gone for him to safely trust himself to stand under blaring spotlights with Paul anymore, his mouth inches away as they locked eyes. No, he'd just surge forward and kiss him and the crowd would go dead silent as the music stopped and Ringo and George dropped their hands, looking at them and each other like 'what the fuck?' and it would all go wrong and-- _**God, John.**_ You have **got** to stop falling down these rabbit holes, forget that train of thought. He was happy to be in the present he had, if he couldn't have more. He definitely wouldn't do it again differently, that's for sure. This present was better than any future, or his past.

> _For the people and things, that went before._

Granted, he'd never forget what had gotten him here. He had Elvis to thank for his love of music, -- which, quick tangent, he met Elvis a couple months ago and got to thank him firsthand and holy shit, that was the coolest thing in the whole fucking world, but Macca is way prettier than Elvis, as John discovered when he compared them side-by-side during that experience, -- his family to thank for the guitars and stuff he'd needed over the years, his friends for getting him into the scene, the Quarrymen for giving him a dream, and The Beatles for helping him achieve it. Nothing, nothing, nothing he would take if it meant he'd had to give up all that, and he'd always think of them when he thanked his lucky stars at night or in the midst of depressing fits of art block.

> _I know I'll often stop and think about them._

And that was true, he probably would. He does. He sees the little things that makes him remember how much love is inside him, _constantly_. He sees Geo's favorite flavor of popsicle, and he could be literally thrumming and vibrating with, just, **love,** and would find himself buying it and bringing it to George's house, sticking it in the freezer with a little note if he wasn't home. A popsicle! John would do half of anything to prove he loved them, the tiniest things set him off. He'd once seen a ring he thought was nice and bought it for Ringo, who gave him the biggest, sunniest grin and added it to his collection. He was even more hopeless when it came to Paul stuff, he'd brought him thousands of trinkets and gifts, anything from in-jokes, -- like the bottlecap necklace, -- to the most thoughtful gestures John had ever summoned, like new bass mods and amplifiers, a nice watch, you name it. He practically _melted_ when Macca thanked him for gifts. He just loved Paul so fucking much, _God._ He could never love anyone the way he loved Paul. He was willing to put money on that. In fact? John **promised** it. _I do,_ he thought, _I promise whatever God there is that I've never loved anyone as much as I love James Paul McCartney, and I never, never will, all my life._ And he sighed, putting out his finished cigarette. It was good. All was good. John was right, and he knew it. He'd never have loved another the way he loved Paul. John would always love Paul more, love Paul more than anything.

> _In my life, I'll love you more._

All of this thinking about Paul just really had him so wistful and lovesick, and he lit another cigarette. He shook his pen, trying to get more ink to the end, when the door swung open.

Paul. 

John guessed the wind on the veranda had prevented him from hearing the knocking, -- Macca didn't really _barge in_. Wasn't his style.

"Hey, Lenny," Paul smiled, walking over, "what'cha got there?"

John realized then, that he was, in fact, holding a lovesong written for the very man who had just walked into the room.

Oh.

Uh.

_ **Fuck.** _

"Nothing important, Paulie, don't worry," he snapped the book shut. Paul cocked a brow.

"Well, 's a song, innit?" McCartney asked, walking over. John shooed him back into the room, trying to play cool.

"Yeah, sure, but I wanna get back inside, and 'm puttin' it up for now," he said, "you can help me with it later, it's just not quite how I want it yet," he explained. Paul seemed a bit miffed or sadded or something-ed by that, but John tried to brush it off. He always felt bad when he did anything to make his Paulie unhappy. Well, not his.

John lit himself the third cigarette in less than an hour, and smiled warmly as best he could as they walked back into his apartment, and Paul sat up like a little kid on the edge of his bed. God, he was just so _in love_ with that stupid, stupid man who _refused_ to notice it. He hummed, glancing slightly his song, which he really didn't quite think was finished. He'd wrote it for that little progression in the key of A, he'd wrote the progression a while back, never used it. Could use another verse, maybe. He moved to set the book down on the nightstand, but Paul stopped him. 

"Show me what you've got so far, actually?" he asked, flashing those sweet puppy eyes at John, who knew he was screwed immediately. _Damn it_. He hated how in _love_ he was, and it took a healthy bit of self control not to kiss that pout off his lips. "Oh come on, Johnny, I just wanna hear," he giggled, and fuck it, Lennon was such a goner.

"Uh. Sure, alright," he sighed, flipping the book back open. "I don't think it's quite done," he warned, grabbing his guitar too and sitting down on the bed next to Paul. 

"That's fine, wanna hear it anyroad. What's it about?" Paul asked, shifting about to make room for his best friend. 

Well, gee, that's gonna be hard to answer.

"About... uh," John sucked in a little breath and offered a shaky smile. "Well, about the person most important to me in the world, I'd suppose," he decided, adjusting the guitar so it rested comfortably on his thigh, and placed the notebook on the comforter, creasing the spine so it would stay open to that page. An expression crossed Paul's face briefly, one that might be pinned something akin to jealousy. John assumed he imagined it, -- he was prone to wishful thinking.

"They must really be somethin' special, eh?" Paul mused, moving a bit closer in, but it was hardly noticeable.

"He is," John sighed, though it wasn't really audible to the other man. A whisper at the most, and Paul really just guessed it was a nervous huff. John pulled a pick from in between the strings and lined his three fingers up on the second fret. He hesitated, eyes flicking away from the notebook to McCartney, who looked so beautiful it was upsetting. He'd love him more, in his life. Yeah, he promised.

"Go on," McCartney whispered, stars in his eyes. How could anyone in their right mind disobey that face? John dragged the pick down and breathed in deeply. He'd never be able to tell Paul how much he loved him. This is as close as it was gonna get, and John knew it. Might as well make it count.

"There are places I remember," he began, voice soft and shaking slightly, but the wonder in Paul's expression encouraged him a bit. He swallowed, and tried to continue stronger. "All my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not..." he huffed a tiny bit.

Having to confront these feelings was taking a slight toll, "not, for better. Some have gone, a- and some remain," he closed his eyes, trying to focus on the chords and the words more than Paul, Paul who was so real and perfect and touchable and present in front of him. Paul, who was there, and so **not his.**

His face was slightly twisted as if trying to hang onto the words, find meaning in John's creation past the first layer. "All these places had their moments, with uh," he looked Paul dead in the eyes, met with a gaze of confusion and what might adoration. "Lovers and friends, I still can recall. Some are..." he trailed off.

That line was for Stu. Paulie wouldn't like that. Maybe John'd change it. He muttered half the lyric nearly incomprehensibly, and then cleared his throat to take up some more time. "...are living," he ended, looking up at Paul to see if he knew. And he did, it was obvious by the look on his face. He'd never liked Stu, and if John didn't know any better, he would say Paul's face was shocked betrayal, almost. He didn't like that, he wanted to fix it, and so he brushed his ankle against Paul's in a sort of apology, or the closest thing he could muster without revealing that he loved Paul the most of all or sobbing his eyes out, so he barreled onward in the song. "In my life," he breathed, "I've loved them all."

He gathered courage as best he could, trying to commit the words to heart, before looking up to meet Paul's shiny, big eyes. He was in love with those eyes, and he got just a bit lost in them as he stared back. "But of all these friends and lovers, there's just no one that compares with you," he sang, and Paul visibly stared harder, searching for something.

All John could offer him were some wrapped up emotions and the soul of a sad man desperately in love. But, like all things in life, he told himself that it would just have to do. "All these memories lose their meaning, if I'd think of love as something new," he blinked a few times, well-aware of the tears surfacing in his eyes.

He just had so much emotion, -- **love,** specifically, -- to offer this stupid man who would never take any of it because he was immovably and forever Not His. Not John's. He wasn't John's, couldn't ever be John's, not even when John was pouring his heart out like the dumb fuck he was, and God, there were more tears and he could **not** let them fall, so he sucked in a deeper, shakier breath than all the ones before it, and kept on, trying to make as much eye contact as he could without crying. "And I know that I'll never lose affection for all the people and things that went before," 

He glanced away for a moment, checking the lyrics again, but looking back as much as he could. Paul wouldn't catch on, but God, he needed to feel like he really was laying every card right here on the table. "I know I'll often stop to think about them," 

He took in a deep breath. This was it. The promise. The vow he wouldn't break as long as he lived, he'd made it to God, now he had to make it to the man it was for, the one he'd always love, love more, love most.

In all his life.

John smiled, a tiny tear falling from the corner of his eye, but he kept eye contact up. This was a promise, he had to make it right. "But in my life," another tear fell, but he just smiled wider. "I'll love you more,"

Paul's expression changed. What was that in his eyes? Paul's eyes communicated so much. All the time, and John was amazing at reading it. He'd memorized every flash and sparkle and gaze, but this one was new. What was it? 

John didn't have any more lyrics, it was hardly half a song. He needed to hammer his point home, though, prove that promise, and figure out what Paul's pretty eyes were saying. He played a soft impromptu lick, and lifted his hand to wipe any tears away with his sleeve. "Though I know; I'll never lose affection, for the people and things that went before," he looked up at Macca's face again.

That look had only grown more intense. It almost had John worried. "I know I'll often stop and think about them," he paused, scanning over Paul's expression. He was incredibly unnerved by his inability to read that stare, he couldn't tell what his friend was thinking. There was one thing he _could_ tell, though. Paul was enraptured, and he couldn't help but understand. Paul was his.

Every bit of Paul, all of his attention and being, -- in that moment, that wonderful minute, it _belonged to John._ Paul belonged to John. Every bit of Paul's body and mind was John's, and he knew it now. Each moment they had together like this, in rooms where it was only them, on stages in front of millions of people, Paul was his. The way his eyes traced and followed every movement, the way his slightly parted lips gently breathed in the same air John was using to profess the undying love he could barely hang onto, his hands twitching as he seemed to be creating the beginning of a bass line to make it theirs; Paul was entirely John's. Paul _belonged_ to him. And so, he belonged to Paul. And so they were each other's, their souls tangled together in a dance that they wrote their own rhythm to, understanding what the other was thinking because they belonged to one another. It wasn't perfect, but as John always said, it would just have to do.

Paul was John's.

And so, John was Paul's.

And so, they belonged. John played an impromptu lick, reveling in the way Paul's gaze blanketed him, the way that he owned Paul and the way that Paul owned him, their mutual belonging, and sang quietly, but not quite as shaky as before, because he promised. "In my life, I've loved you more," John looked up to gaze back into his friend's eyes, trying to pour all of the love that he'd never be able to really give him how he wanted into the space between them. 

Paul's hazel eyes flashed, and John smiled. This was how it was supposed to be, he loved Paul. Loved him so much, and he played the same lick as before, drawing in a stronger, more confident breath, a small smile on his face. "In my life, I'll love you..." he let the sour chord hang in the air, relishing the last few moments where Paul could be all his, before letting it go. "More," he half-whispered, pulling through the A slowly and letting it ring.

No one moved.

When the chord stopped, John moved the guitar slowly off his lap, careful not to hit any strings and break the spell. He quietly closed his notebook with a soft clap of the paper, and set it aside, before looking back up at Paul. That look wouldn't go away. 

"Who'd you write that about?" he asked, voice breathy and cautious.

"I told ya," John smiled sadly, wishing he lived in a world where he could just give that love to Paul conventionally, "most important person I've ever met, will ever meet," he sighed. 

"They must be pretty special," his friend mused, that funny look still on his face, even as his eyebrows crept a bit higher.

"Yeah," Lennon agreed wistfully, looking over at the veranda. The wisps of drunken memories teased him, the two of them standing just too close, their cigarette smoke mingling in the air. "Yeah, Macca, they really are something," he turned back, a rueful but lovesick look on his face. Paul's eyes hadn't changed, but he was smiling more now.

_Wait_.

Oh. John suddenly realized what the look was. 

The way Paul's eyes were wide and sparkly, and his brows were high, but not stressed. 

That was **understanding.**

_He knew_.

Oh, shit. Oh no. He'd figured it out. John's heart rate skyrocketed, but he couldn't tear his gaze away from Paul, who was just so damn pretty and lovely and he was so weak for him but now he **knew that** , and oh God. Lennon could feel his skin flashing hot, and rashy blush spiderwebbing across his cheeks. He opened his mouth to say something, he wasn't sure what, apologize, maybe, deflect it somehow, just take back all that love because he knew he couldn't give it to him and he'd fucked up, he'd been too straightforward, had to spill the beans, didn't you, Lennon? You dumb fuck, you really _just can't help yourself, and--_

Paul wordlessly lunged at John, pressing their lips together, and it took John half a second of mental processing, a little moment to think, to realize, Oh Lord, he was just kissed by fucking _James Paul McCartney!!_ Where did he go _right_? Where does this go _wrong_?? Oh God, this was gonna ruin everything, wasn't it? Ruin their friendship, ruin the band, ruin their success, ruin his image, ruin his idea of love, ruin his _**life**_! 

But he couldn't find it within himself to care in the _slightest_ , and it took only that half second for him to be kissing back with passion completely unheard of. Paul had somehow gotten in John's lap, his hands looped around the older's neck, knees on either side of John's legs, and speaking of John, he was in **heaven.** The man he'd do anything for was _kissing him_ , _actually kissing him_ , so material and real and **there** , and John wrapped his arms around him, pulling him even closer. How'd they get here? You know, with further, -- however limited, -- examination of that thought, John decided it didn't matter in the _slightest_. What mattered was the man in his arms, little breathy sounds punching out of his chest as he tried to be closer to John, and oh God, Lennon was going to fucking die. Cardiac arrest, cardiac arrest, he was going to **_die_** , he could hear his heart pounding like Ringo's whole drumset in a uneven cacophony but it didn't _matter._ Nothing mattered, nothing else mattered, nothing but _Paul_.

Never anything but Paul, Paul who was in his lap and kissing him so dizzy that his head hurt, and he was certain his brain was falling out of his ears. It was official, kissing was ruined. Absolutely destroyed; Paul wins, everyone else can go home. John was certain that no bird _or_ man could **ever** top the way Paul and his tongues danced in tandem, to a rhythm they were writing by themselves in the moment, and John couldn't help but smile a bit into the kiss because dammit, Paul was **his** , and he was Paul's, and he never wanted it _any other way._ This was magnificent, holy fuck, John was ruined, ruined, **ruined** , and he was _living for it_.

Paul's kisses were amazing, and John's head was swimming, soft growls resounding from low in his chest every now and again. The bassist's hands slipped just up from their perch around John's neck, and his fingers tangled themselves in John's hair, scratching his scalp just slightly and drawing a happy purr from the rhythm guitarist, because _oh God, Macca, how'd you get so good at this?_ He was dreaming, John was sure of it, this was just a really good dream and he'd wake up and be alone again. It was so real, though, Paul's perfect weight settled on John's thighs, and to be honest, his legs were falling asleep about now, but he couldn't find it within himself to pay attention to anything other than the beautiful man kissing him senseless. John untucked Paul's shirt to slide his hands up under the fabric, so he could splay his hands possessively over small of the younger's back, who hummed highly in response.

John was so lost, so lost in everything that was happening, but he was loving every second, so he figured it didn't matter. He couldn't breathe, but Paul was close, and that was all he could find himself capable of caring about. He let his lips continue to dance with Paul's, on fucking cloud nine, -- which sounds like something Geo might say, but he seriously felt that way, -- living for every second spent like that. His eyes were squeezed shut, all his focus going into kissing Paul like the world was ending, which it may very well have been, it didn't matter, he could die happy now. Paul gently tugged on the guitar player's soft locks, eventually separating them just a bit, John's eyes fluttering open to meet Paul's pretty, hazel, doe eyes. John loved those eyes, he loved them so much, he could stare into them forever. 

John loved Paul so _much_.

"You wrote me a song," he whispered, dropping his head to John's shoulder. Lennon had no idea what this meant for them, he didn't, and he was frankly terrified, but this was a good moment and he sure as hell wasn't gonna put a stop to it.

"I may've done, yeah," John chuckled breathlessly, pulling the man closer. He was never gonna let go, he decided.

"John," he panted, rubbing his cheek gently against the older man's, "thank you. D'ja mean it?" he wondered, his voice hushed.

"I promise it, Macca," he hummed, chest vibrating slightly. "I'll love you more," Paul laughed.

"You're a cheesey sod," He pecked his friend's cheek fondly.

"Aye, but you love it, don't you, Paulie?" he giggled, closing his eyes and leaning on Paul. 

"I love _you_ ," he corrected, and John hugged him a little tighter at that.

"How does this work?" John asked, cringing slightly at the phrasing. "I- I mean, y'know, what, er. Eh, wh-" Paul shut him up with another kiss, and John could live with that.

"Well, I can start it off by declaring that I've been hopelessly in love with ya since four years," Paul admitted, blushing.

" _ **Four years???**_ " John gaped. Four fucking years? Four years, he coulda had this. Four years, four years. Wait, -- only four years?

"I know, I've just loved ya so long, I'm so glad you finally want me bac-" he started, but John cut him off with a shout.

"I've loved you **eight** **fucking** **years** , Paul!!" Lennon complained, waving his arms in exasperation.

"Eight years????" Paul damn-near gasped.

"Eight whole fucking years!!! Eight, Macca!!!!"

"We _met_ eight years ago, John,"

" **Exactly, you dunce!** " 

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry," Paul snickered, pained humor on his face.

"Oi, my feelings aren't funny," John huffed, pouting.

"No, no, they aren't, I'm just sorry I haven't been lovin' on you all this time," McCartney chuckled, kissing him again.

"I love you, Paulie."

"Love you too, Johnny. Thank you for writing me a song," he whispered, kissing him again and holding him close. 

"I've written you at least twenty, actually," John admitted, smiling. "But I guess I just finally got through to ya,"

"Guess so? You'll be my lover boy from now on, please?" Paul blinked those beautiful eyes at him, and John smiled.

He knew this look, that was love.

And, well.

How could _anyone_ ever say no to such a pretty face?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so in love with this concept, so knowing me I'll end up doing it again but maybe a song Paul wrote, or maybe even Starrison??? Who knows??? Not me!!! Anyway, I hope you liked it! Thank you for reading, hope it wasn't too bad. <3


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